


shackled up

by ravenraiyes



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 10:00:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4055839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenraiyes/pseuds/ravenraiyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"(No wonder Miller nearly screamed when he’d casually wondered, “It can’t be that bad, right?” and the rest of his office seemed to stop their work, clasping their hands together in an impromptu prayer circle for him.)</p><p>Come to think of it, Bellamy should’ve left it just right then and there."</p><p>Or, Clarke Griffin's sentence in jail has been lifted a bit early, and to make sure she doesn't revert back to her delinquent ways, Bellamy Blake is assigned (more like chose to take it without knowledge of the history that came with it) to her case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shackled up

**Author's Note:**

> for [brianna](http://underbellamy.tumblr.com/) because i heard you were feeling down

Bellamy frowns at the name listed on the case file currently kept in his hands, the manila folder crumpling slightly in his large hands as he glances dubiously at the luxurious mansion sitting on top of the hill.

He can’t really call it a house, because he’s pretty sure the driveway itself is bigger than his house, which is a humble one story thing that he’s rebuilt from scratch basically, what, with all the renovations he’d done.

But this? It’s fucking _huge._

Glancing at the file again, and the greasy, pale looking mugshot attached - it’s true when they say there’s no conditioner in jail - he frowns again, feeling the deep crease between his eyebrows grow just a little bit more.

This surely can’t be right.

The delinquent he’s got on file is named Clarke Griffin, and she’s been let out early for multiple accounts of breaking and entering, along with aggravated assault - all petty crimes usually committed by those desperate enough to steal what they need.

He’s seen these types of people before in Arcadia - a ton of them, actually, thanks to his job as a parole officer - the kind who aren’t hardened criminals, but those who are just trying to survive on stealing and breadcrumbs, and Bellamy can’t help but pity them.

Because after all, he used to be one of those people.

But Clarke Griffin? She is the polar opposite of that, or so it seems, with clearly enough means moneywise.

She’s probably one of those girls who act out to grab their parents’ attention, he concludes, already geared to dislike her as he presses a button on the gate, feeling way out of his place. His gun weighs heavily on his thigh, and he can already feel the judgemental glances he’s bound to get when he shows up - he’s pretty sure he hasn’t showered since yesterday, due to the code eight eight they’d called him for at night when he’d just finished his hours with Monty.

Murphy, that asshole, was seriously close to having his early release revoked - why they’d let a psychopath like him out early - and Miller had called him in a panic, talking about the illegal booze that he’d just seen carted into Murphy’s house.

So he’s dirty - probably looking like something that came out of the garbage bin, not that’s any different from any other day - and about to step foot into the esteemed Griffin manor.

Octavia probably would’ve demanded he go home and freshen up, but he’s got a job to do and he’s running on approximately 4.3 hours of sleep, so -

_Fuck it_ , he thinks grimly, feeling a bit like he’s stepping into a warzone, and judging by the glare the stupid butler gives him as he tracks in a tiny bit of dirt into the home, it might as well be.

+++

“I’m Bellamy,” he says stiffly, standing in front of who he assumes to be Clarke, mainly because she’s glaring at older woman behind her with the exact expression she used in the mug shot, “and I’m your parole officer. I’m -”

“Here to make sure I settle in alright and adjust to life among civilians, I know. Raven debriefed me already.” Clarke interrupts, turning to face Bellamy with a smile and an outstretched hand, a stark contrast to the anger filled expression she’d held only a few moments earlier.

He takes her hand, grasping it firmly, surprised to find her palm a bit rough and callused, and that her handshake is a lot better than some his coworkers in the precinct - in the sense that it’s confident, something Bellamy immediately likes, despite his misgivings about her in the first place.

(His mother used to tell him that handshakes told a lot about the people that they belonged too, and Bellamy’s used that all his life, finding it actually a good precursor to determining personalities of people he’d just meet.)

“Clarke,” The woman reprimands sharply, and Bellamy’s surprised at just how quickly this blonde chick can change moods - the previously sunny disposition she’d displayed towards him passes in a flash, the sour look returning to her face as she addresses her mother.

“I am perfectly capable of handling my own business, _mother_ ,” Clarke spits out, and holy _shit_ , Bellamy’s not exactly sure he’s ever heard any words spoken with that much hatred and pure dislike before now.

Tamping down the urge to let out a low whistle - he’s tempted to ask the butler for some popcorn, but the old man is still glaring at Bellamy (or rather, his shoes, which are dark and muddied, a contrast to the white marble of the floors) - Bellamy watches the exchange with some interest.

“I don’t think you are, honey,” Abby smiles back, but it’s the kind of sickly sweet grin that he’s only seen in the movies. You know, the one that the evil villains always give the hero whenever they are about to win a fight. It’s simpering, completely slimy, and Bellamy really, _really_ regrets taking this case.

(No wonder Miller nearly screamed when he’d casually wondered, “It can’t be that bad, right?” and the rest of his office seemed to stop their work, clasping their hands together in an impromptu prayer circle for him.)

Come to think of it, Bellamy should’ve left it just right then and there.

But no, of course he had to take this fucking case because it paid extra cash - he could now see why - and it would help him pay the mortgage on his pride and joy, his little house that he’d rebuilt with his blood, sweat, and tears.

And judging by the way the butler had stopped glaring at him in favor of diving behind the door when Clarke had grown as red as a tomato from yelling at her mother (the elder Griffin said something about a well?), the fight was going to get pretty nasty.

“Get _out_!” Clarke screams, grabbing the nearest thing to her, which coincidentally, is a priceless china plate that could probably pay off half of his mortgage (let’s just say Bellamy owes a lot of money to the bank), and tosses it at her mother, who doesn’t even fucking flinch as it flies past her head.

“Fine!” Abby Griffin grouses, slamming the very door the butler had chosen to take refuge behind with a loud bang!, and if Bellamy tilts his head just right, he can sort of see steam rolling off the elder woman’s head in waves.

Clarke collapses almost immediately after her mother disappears from eyesight, and Bellamy only just manages to catch her and deposit her onto a chair in the dining room.

“Sorry about that,” she manages weakly, still clearly drained from the entire ordeal, and Bellamy ignores the voice inside his head that tells him he really should’ve left twenty minutes ago, and shrugs.

“What can you do?” He says gruffly, taking the seat opposite her, his brotherly instincts already kicking in. His rant radar is beeping wildly, and he asks the butler for two glasses of water (with minimal glaring, which he think, is some progress) as he says the words that he’ll probably regret later.

“Want to talk about it?”

+++

He regrets it about an hour into the running.

Clarke talks about a mile a minute, and the first time he interrupted her to clarify with some questions, she’d directed him with a glare so intense he’d just lifted his hands in surrender, gesturing for her to continue with a muttered, “My bad.”

As she talks - mainly about her mother - he realizes how much of Octavia he sees in her (the resemblance is so fucking crazy) that he doesn’t feel himself smiling until she looks at him with a dubious look in her eye.

“Are you really smiling right now?” she demands, sort of amused, and he blinks, confused, until he remembers where he is and fuck, Clarke is kinda hot when she’s bossy.

(Not that he’ll ever tell her that.)

“Yeah I am,” he amends, because he remembers that she was in the middle of talking about her father’s death, and pulls out a picture of his baby sister. “You totally remind me of my baby sister; you guys are fucking spitfires, for sure.”

“Really,” Clarke deadpans, and Bellamy scribbles something on the manila folder, sliding it towards her.

“Here, you can call her and find out for yourself. Tell her your life story for all I care, but I’ve got to jam. “ He gets up, looking sheepish as she glares up at him.

(In his defence, men can only listen to so much before their eyes glaze over, and he also had an appointment to make with Murphy (the bane of his existence) about, oh, twenty minutes ago.)

“Are you just palming me off to your sister? What an asshole.” Clarke exaggerates, smile tugging at her lips, and Bellamy can’t help the spike of attraction growing through him.

“I’m a handsome asshole, at least,” he offers, shooting a smirk as he slips into flirt mode before he realizes what he’s doing.

He’s flirting. With his parolee.

_Fuck._

It’s illegal, he tells himself, in pretty much every way, Blake.

And so he does what Bellamy Blake does best.

He runs.

“You’ll get together just fine!” He yells as he dashes out of the mansion. “Don’t get into any trouble! Same time next week, okay?”

He pretends he can’t hear her chuckles off the walls, because on top of an unfairly attractive face, she also has an unfairly attractive laugh.

++++++

**  
  
  
  
  
**

**Author's Note:**

> would you like me to continue?? thoughts?? comments?? kudos??
> 
> talk to me on [](http://grounderbell.tumblr.com/>tumblr</a>!)


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